


Unwind.

by Michaelssw0rd



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Fluff, I blame Sky, LOTS OF JUST LOVINGNESS AND LOVE AND FLUFF YEP THAT'S IT, M/M, Massage, Schmoop, Sort of healing after the pain of my last fic sorry :P, also this goes with my headcanon of Riley and Whistler living together in s4 okay!, domesticness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-24
Updated: 2017-03-24
Packaged: 2018-10-10 03:18:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,510
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10427976
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Michaelssw0rd/pseuds/Michaelssw0rd
Summary: Harold looks tense. John helps. (No. Not in that way.)





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [talkingtothesky](https://archiveofourown.org/users/talkingtothesky/gifts).



* * *

 

“Mr. Reese,” Finch called out without looking away from the screen.

They were at the abandoned subway station, Finch actively typing ever since John got there an hour ago, barely acknowledging him. Reese was sure that he had been at it long before his arrival. Sighing in relief he stood up from the uncomfortable steel bench had been sitting on for the past hour, stretching his aching muscles. He missed the library at times like this; it had comfortable chairs.

He went to stand behind Harold’s back, bending a little to see what Finch was pointing at on the screen. His partner threw one impatient glance at him, wordlessly telling him to pay attention, before going off in a rant about the new Number they were working on.

“Miss Stevens, as we have already found, is a corporate lawyer. But maybe we are looking at this the wrong way. I took the liberty of digging into her social media history and…”

John tuned out the words. Harold was sitting ramrod straight, on a backless seat, and was holding himself stiffly. How had John not noticed the inadequate seating before?

Bending a little more, he took it as an excuse to place his palm on the small of Finch’s back, using it as support. Harold stopped talking for a moment, startled, but then continued on as if nothing happened. A small smile appeared on John’s lips at that.

He would’ve felt a little bad for not listening to what Harold was saying, but he could feel the knots under his hand, how the older man’s muscles were pulled tight, and bunched into lumps. He must’ve been in a lot of pain, but typical of the genius, he would never admit to it.

Casually, he rubbed the hand up and down, lightening the touch until it was just back of his fingers trailing up Harold’s spine, and stroking down. The touch was light enough that it would barely be felt through the layers of clothing, but Harold wasn’t complaining, so John found no reason to stop.

After a few moments, the man sighed, pushing a little into John’s caress when he stroked the bare skin on his nape, and closed his eyes. John placed his hand flat on the man’s collar, rubbing his thumb back and forth lightly on the short prickly hair on the back of his neck, letting the heat of his palm suffuse through the cloth, to Harold’s skin and hoping it would unwind the muscle.

Finch had stopped speaking, and looked so relaxed that John ached with affection. “Let’s go home Harold.”

He had been waiting for his partner to be done fussing so they would head home, and get some sleep. Doing his day job as a detective and his more important job as a vigilante along with it was tiring, and he knew it was the same for Harold too. But what Harold lacked in stamina, he made up for in stubbornness.

“The numbers won’t wait Mr. Reese,” Harold snapped, still nuzzling into his touch and looking adorable rumpled.

John chuckled, “Actually, they would.”

Harold looked slightly offended, and scrunched up his face to protest. John squeezed the back of Harold’s neck comfortingly, stopping the complaint before it began.

“It’s the middle of the night Harold. The numbers would be asleep.”

“Oh.” Harold was struck speechless. It was expected. The man seemed to lose track of time even in the library where lights coming from the windows showed the interplay of day and night. Here, underground in the abandoned subway station, forgetting how much time had passed was very easy. “You can’t know that.”

“I can. If you remember, I came back here after following her to her apartment, and waiting for the lights to go dark.”

“Oh.” Harold closed his eyes tiredly, squeezed the bridge of his nose between thumb and index finger, and sighed. “You’re right.” He sagged. If John hadn’t moved his hand quickly, supporting his back, he would’ve toppled off the seat.

“You need rest Harold. How long has it been since you last slept,” he asked, concerned. When Harold didn’t answer, he pressed, “You should get some sleep.”

“I can’t.” Harold sounded resigned.

“You can. I promise I will go on the lookout for Ms. Stevens if you promise to sleep.”

“You aren’t listening to me John! _I can’t_.” There was annoyance in his voice now. John continued the gentle stroking of Harold’s back and considered it. He had an inkling about what was wrong.

“Why?” he asked gently, just to be sure.

Harold just glared at him in irritation, and John relented, “Your back giving you trouble?”

It was obvious that it took a lot out of the prideful man to reluctantly nod to that. John’s heart warmed at the admission, at Harold showing vulnerability.

He trailed his fingers up the back, down the arm, sensually, until he was gripping Harold’s hand lying the table, slowly tugging. Harold looked at him questioningly, and he replied to it with a sincere, “Let me help.”

Harold looked at him for a moment, and nodded.

Together, they quickly packed up, turning off the computers and gathering their things. John’s hand lingered on Harold’s back, providing unquestioning support, and quite soon they were going out, turning the lights off. Harold made a half aborted gesture towards the dog bed, only to realize Shaw had taken Bear for the night, while he had been too engrossed in work. He huffed, and wrapped his muffler around his neck, linking his fingers with John’s.

John hailed a cab, feeling lucky to find one at such a late hour. They dropped right outside Harold Whistler’s apartment, the need for privacy gone now under their current aliases. Nobody raised an eyebrow at a professor and a detective living together. John knew he was thriving under the lie they were living. Possibly because it didn’t feel like a lie at all. Not with Harold’s warmth under his hand, pressing against his side. Not when his scent felt like _home_ in a way nothing else ever had.

Reese kissed his hair, and nuzzled into them as Harold deftly opened the lock, letting them both in.

“Take off your clothes and get ready for bed. I will be right there.” He disentangled himself from his partner, nudging him towards the bedroom.

Harold hesitated, looking at him with something like apology in his eyes, “Mr. Reese,” he started, and then amended, “John. I don’t think I can…”

John didn’t even need to hear him complete the sentence. The uncertainty in his voice was enough. He laughed a little, hugging the beloved man gently, and then pressing his lips to his forehead.

“I know Harold. Honestly, me too.” It wasn’t technically a lie. While he would never say no to Harold skin under his, never say no to the pleasure of hearing him moan and whimper as he made love to him, right now, he didn’t want that. He was planning on something else.

“Trust me.” He cupped Finch’s face, looking into his eyes, which had gone soft with affection. Kissing his forehead one more time, he told him to go ahead, and went into kitchen to get what he needed.

He stripped out of his coat and shirt on the way back, making himself comfortable. When he entered the room, he saw Harold propped up on the pillows in bed, stark naked and unselfconsciousness, typing something on his mobile screen. His mouth went dry looking at the picture he made, but he quickly got himself under control. This wasn’t the time.

Indulgently, he moved to his side of the bed and climbed on it, sitting on his knees. Gently, he took the mobile away from the hands and placed it on the side, ignoring the protest. Next, he took off the glasses, folding them and putting them beside the mobile. Harold huffed, folding his arms against his chest at being coddled like that. John couldn’t resist the draw any longer, and awed by the knowledge that he was _allowed_ , he titled Harold’s chin and kissed him, long and slow, lovingly. The frown was gone from Finch’s face when he separated, replaced by a soft smile.

“Now what?” he asked, curious.

“Now,” John moved away, giving Harold space, “you turn over.”

Confused, Harold complied, scooting down and turning over on his stomach. John picked two pillows, and maneuvered Harold until he had one placed under his chest, and the other under his legs.

“Comfortable?” He asked, to which his partner replied with a muffled sigh of relief.

“It does feel nice, but I am not sure if I can sleep like this,” Harold admitted.

“Let’s see if we can change that.” John picked up the bottle of massage oil, “ever had aromatherapy massage Finch?” he teased.

Harold relaxed even more, letting out a happy moan, “Yeah. Mr. Crane used to have regularly scheduled ones.”

John laughed, “Why am I not surprised?” He tilted the bottle, pouring a little oil on his palm, and rubbing it between his hands, warming it. “You like sandalwood then?”

“And lavender.” Harold agreed, the scent of the oils reaching him. John felt smugly proud of guessing the man’s preference so well.

“Ready?” He asked, placing his hands above Harold’s back and waiting for his nod. He already looked too relaxed to be coherent, and John had not even started yet.

He placed both of his hands, palms down and fingers closed, on both sides of Harold’s spine and started the effleurage, smooth and circular strokes, up and down, rhythmic and firm, getting a feel of  what the man liked. The content noises he was making told him he was doing something right. He kept doing that, stroking reasonably firmly as he went upwards from the lower back, all the way up to the neck, circling there gently, mindful of his injuries, and back to the lower back region, repeating the motions again and again, until he had Harold pliant under his fingers.

“Alright?” he asked again.

“Don’t stop.” Harold moaned, and he had to remind his libido that Harold meant the massage.

He obliged happily, using the heels of his hand to put more pressure, deeper, working in a circle from inward to outwards, finding all the places where Harold’s muscles were bunched up and knotted and remembering them for later. Sometimes, he would flatter his fingers into a taut muscle, and vibrate the area rapidly for a few seconds, relishing the sounds of pleasure Harold made. He was an assassin. Long ago, he had learned all the trigger points in a human body, handy information you needed when your purpose was causing pain; with Harold, he had finally found use of that knowledge for something else- how to relieve pain.

Alternating between the heel and the flats of his fingers he worked Harold’s back, kneading the muscles for many long minutes, sometimes lingering on one place, concentrating where he knew Harold hurt the most- upper back and neck- and sometimes gliding his thumb all the way up the spine with deep sustained pressure. When he was sure Harold was adequately relaxed and warmed, he massaged over a painful knot purposely. Harold sucked in a breath, and John knew he was aware what was coming.

“This is going to hurt,” he apologized, but Harold gave a jerky nod, which he took as a permission to find the middle of the bunched muscle, place his thumb over it and press. Harold gasped a little in pain, but it was a necessary evil. After a few seconds, Harold relaxed, and John pressed harder, not easing off the pressure, until he felt the muscle give under his finger, and unwind.

Stubborn little thing, John smiled and gentled his touch, smoothing his palm over the place over and over again in circles, feeling the man melt into the pillows under him, before moving onto another sore spot and repeating the process.

He checked with Harold every few minutes, asking him if he was feeling any discomfort, and the way he was slurring the words, and sighing and moaning in appreciation warmed John’s heart. He knew he ought to finish this quickly, letting Harold get some of his much needed rest. Someday, he was going to give Harold a full body massage for hours, but today wasn’t the day for it. Pressing into a knot on his shoulder blade, he noticed how Harold wasn’t even reacting to the pain quite like before. He let go quickly, not wanting to work without input from Harold, afraid he might cause more harm than good.  He did his last few up and down rhythmic strokes, with his fingers, shifting to the heel of his palm, and then to the whole hand, gentling the pressure slowly until he was barely pressing at all.

With some amusement, he noticed Harold wasn’t really awake now, breathing deep and relaxed, his eyes closed.

Carefully, without jostling the bed and startling the man, he got up and trailed to the washroom. His arousal hummed pleasantly under his skin, but that wasn’t a surprise, not after touching Harold so intimately for so long. Nor was it a concern.

He washed his hands, brushed his teeth, and stripped off his jeans, choosing to keep his briefs on. Then he went to the kitchen to drink some water, and also brought a glass of it to place on the table on Harold’s side. The man sometimes got thirsty in the middle of the night.

He shook Harold’s shoulder lightly, knowing if he stayed like that all night, he would wake up with a back that was even more strained, and helped settle him on his side, putting the pillows exactly where Finch liked. After helping him settle comfortably, he turned off lights and got into bed himself, throwing an arm over Harold’s waist and burying his nose into his neck, inhaling the sweet and soothing scent of the massage oils. Harold’s hand pulled him closer, muttering something vague.

“Hmm?” he asked, wondering if there was something important he wanted to say, his eyes drooping.

“I said,” Harold repeated, his voice slightly more audible, “you’re quite a wonderful boyfriend.”

John grinned at that, helplessly, kissing the back of Harold’s neck before placing his forehead against it. “Go back to sleep Harold,” he whispered fondly, trying to contain the joy in his heart.

“Goodnight.” Harold mumbled, and soon his breath evened out, falling back into slumber.

John let himself float in the high of Harold’s praise, reinforced by the calming fragrance of the lavender and sandalwood, before dozing off himself.

Tomorrow, he would bring Harold breakfast in bed, kiss him on the cheek before leaving for the precinct, parting for the day. And at night, he would be back here, wrapping himself around the man he loved as he slept in his arms, in their bed, in the home they shared, living a life they built together.

There was nothing more real than that. Nothing more comforting.

**Author's Note:**

> So sky basically linked me to [this](http://screencapped.net/tv/personofinterest/displayimage.php?album=36&pid=90461#top_display_media) picture. And said she has been thinking about Massages. And you know how that works...  
> What began as like... a short <1k words story ended up being 2.5k but you how THAT works with me too.  
> So here we are, with a long descriptive massage fic nobody asked for. It was sort of comforting for me to write. 
> 
> I hope you all enjoyed it too <3.


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